#the shotgunning fic has come to fruition

[johnslittlespoon]

Breathe Me In (Exhale Slow)

[SFW | WC: 2K | Gale Cleven/John Egan, Shotgunning, Cigarettes, Friends to Lovers, Angst & Hurt/Comfort, Feelings, First Kiss]

Gale’s boot taps restlessly, knees bent to half–hunch over them, only his lower back leaning against the wall of the plane. He picks at the skin of baby–soft lips, staring out to the edge of the wing with glazed over eyes, and John’s heart twists.

He can think of a hundred and one ways to distract him, but not a single word of reassurance. He’s not good at that sort of thing; that’s Gale’s area of expertise. He feels useless.

“Here,” he murmurs, holding out his cigarette.

[AO3 LINK]

[fanfic-scribbles]

Home Away From Home

Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: You’re not sure who is stealing your clothes but you would like it to stop. Please and thank you.

Prompt: Written for @gabriel-monthly-challenge’s November dialogue prompt: “Hey, I’ve been looking for that! But…why is it here?” [And so tagging mods: @archangelgabriellives, @ttttrickster, @archangel-with-a-shotgun, @warlockwriter, @archangelsanonymous, and @revwinchester.]

Quick facts: Romance – Gabriel/Reader – Nondescript Reader

Warnings: Fluff; ‘Sugar’ as term of endearment; angel nesting

Words: 1784

A/N: I think over the years I have read through every nesting fic I have found. I have a lot of weirdly specific tropes I really enjoy and this is one of them. Logically yeah angels probably aren’t like birds and their wings probably don’t have feathers and blah blah I don’t really care, I’m just gonna wrap myself up in this conceit like a cozy blanket. Pure self-indulgence, my friends; I am aaaaaall about it. I hope you can enjoy it too, ‘cause this is pretty much what it says on the tin. As for where this takes place in the canon timeline, it would probably be after an alternate S13 ending with no Michael!Dean and the AU!Hunters are settling in elsewhere. Because I am Lazy.

    You have a problem.

You, specifically. As in: only you. No one else has this problem. Not that it’s life-threatening or anything; it’s just…

Your clothes keep going missing.

Nothing that makes it really gross, thankfully, but things that do make it personal, and absolutely nothing that can be explained by a hungry dryer. All your socks are fine. All your favorite shirts, however– the ones that have survived enough hunts to become well-worn– have vanished. That one magical jacket you could wear comfortably in the spring but which also kept you warm in the winter– gone without a trace.

You’re officially fed up when your absolute favorite shirt, the one that’s ridiculously comfortable and the most flattering thing you have ever owned, goes missing.

“I swear I’ve never heard of a creature that eats clothes. You can look it up yourself if you don’t believe me.”

“I will. Also– stop laughing at me.”

Sam, chuckling, shakes his head but goes back to wiping down his gun. Jack, who’s sitting nearby and carefully polishing a knife, stops and frowns. “Could it be a…” He looks uncertainly from you to Sam. “…A ghost?”

“There are no ghosts here, Jack.” Sam smiles at him reassuringly. “This place is warded against just about everything.”

“Besides, I checked.”

Sam gives you a Look. “You checked? For a ghost?”

“I had to do something!” You put down your gun and rag. Any more polishing and you’ll probably put a new hole in it. “This isn’t natural.”

Sam scoffs. “Sometimes the simplest explanation is the correct one.”

“I thought of that, which is why I didn’t say anything for weeks,” you say. “But the whole point of a prank is to get a reaction and nobody has even alluded to it. So no, nobody took them as a joke.”

Sam’s face scrunches. “Okay. That is weird.”

“Right?” Puh-lease; living in the same space as Gabriel and Dean, how could you not first assume it was a joke?

“How would stealing your clothes be a joke?” Jack asks

“Who even knows with this crew,” you say. You can’t help but frown at the bittersweet recollection. “Dean and Gabriel used to love to play jokes. Especially Gabriel.”

There’s a bit of silence (and mental cursing of asshole demons on your part) until Sam clears his throat. “How is Gabriel? I haven’t seen him in a few days.”

More than that; it’s been at least a week since he left. “He took off to do something with Cas. I’m sure they’ll be home soon.”

Sam frowns again. “Cas is with Dean. They met up yesterday and went to check out a possible werewolf thing.”

There’s a bit of panic in you at that– Gabriel is gone and alone– but you shove it down. If that’s the case then it’s only been a day, and Gabriel needs his autonomy. No matter how much you wish you could roll him in a bunch of blankets and keep him close. “Well, he must be fine or Cas would have said something.”

“Right.” Sam clears his throat and goes back to cleaning his weapons. “Now that his grace is back in working order he’s probably just…spreading his wings.”

“Yeah! Yeah.” You throw yourself into that idea. That he hasn’t taken off. Or worse. “He’s used to a different standard. It’s probably weird for him to live underground.”

“Yes.”

“Exactly.”

Jack looks very confused but when your eyes glance over him he nods quickly in solidarity. You smile. Cas and Sam may be the Dads Prime, but the way he’s taken to Gabriel is cute. Well, sometimes family is three jaded hunters and two Heaven-averse angels.

“I think I’m going to go see if I can spruce up his room,” you say and start picking up your things. “Maybe if I clean it up, make it smell nice, put a picture or something…maybe it can feel more like a home.” And less like a cell, you think but don’t add.

Sam looks like he wants to say something, but he just smiles awkwardly and says, “Good luck.”

  Apparently you don’t need it. You thought Sam’s well wishes were warranted– whenever you’ve seen glimpses of Gabriel’s room it’s always looked like utter chaos. Standing in it now with cleaning supplies and some knick-knacks, it’s actually…nice. Chaos maybe, but controlled chaos. The bed in the room is not the original one, but it’s also not opulent enough to hold your attention.

What does catch your eye is the giant pile of fabric on the floor that, from your little glimpses, you had assumed to be a mess of discarded laundry. It’s not. The shape of it is purposeful; sort of square, sort of rounded, and formed by a ton of blankets as well as clothi–

“Hey, I’ve been looking for that!” You fall to your knees on the soft pile and grab your favorite jacket. “But…why is it here?”

And that’s not the only thing stashed in the pile. You find all of your missing shirts, a tan trench coat that looks exactly like what Cas wears day in and day out, and a few other shirts that you can trace back to Jack, Sam, and even Dean.

“Seriously, what the fuck?” But you’re not angry so much as confused. Okay, a little annoyed, but still mostly confused and trying not to judge. If Gabriel was trying to pull a joke, it would’ve come to fruition by now. So why does he have your stuff, and why does it look like he intends to keep it?

“Gabriel,” you say evenly. “When you have a minute, come back to the bunker. We need to talk.”

You ball up the trash bag, dust a little, and light some candles to make the place smell a little less like an underground hideaway. On the dresser, you place a photo of Sam, Dean, Jack, and Cas that you took. Then you sit on the foot of the bed, facing the blanket pile, and wait.

“Please tell me nobody triggered another apocaly–” Gabriel, now next to you, stops so suddenly there might as well be a record scratch. The fact that there isn’t one is telling. “What are you doing in my room?”

“Um, you said I could ‘come by anytime,’” you say, finger-quotes and all. “‘Mi casa es su casa’ and everything. You even amended it to ‘mi habitación.’ Remember?”

“Oh.” Gabriel deflates and looks back and forth between you and the pile. “I really don’t want to have this conversation. Can we not have this conversation?”

You shrug. “I can’t stop you if you’d rather leave, but you should know that if we don’t have this conversation then I am always going to be wondering why you’re sleeping with one of Dean’s shirts.”

Gabriel grimaces. A confirmation if ever you’ve seen one. “So you do sleep in it!” You look from the floor to the bed. The bed which feels very nice. “Why are you sleeping in a pile of clothes instead of your bed?”

Gabriel looks offended. “It’s not just a pile of clothes.”

“Sorry; pile of clothes and blankets.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a nest.”

You look down at the…nest. You’re sure you don’t know exactly what that means to him, but you can guess at it. “Oh. Is it an…angel thing?”

“Yes,” he says sourly, head ducked down so you can’t see his face. “In heaven you twine grace with your siblings. On earth you have to…adjust. Slightly.”

You take a moment to pick that apart. Siblings; being close. “It’s about family then?” you ask. He nods. He’s lifted his head again but he looks so miserable, you try to make a joke. “Does that make me your favorite then?”

He snaps his head up and looks quizzical. Yeah, a joke at your expense almost always does the trick. You gesture at the sub-collection of your closet. “You have more of my stuff than anyone else.”

Gabriel actually smiles a little at that. “You’ve always been my favorite.”

“Really?” You clamp your hands on your mouth– that was embarrassingly eager. But Gabriel doesn’t seem to care. He’s staring at you, expression calculatingly inscrutable. And yet…

You clear your throat. “So…those are my favorite clothes. What are the chances of me getting them back?”

Gabriel smiles mischievously and folds his arms up to tap his finger to his lip, like he’s thinking very hard about it. You should be worried by that, but it’s such a rare sight these days you’re too happy about it to worry about what’s going to come out of his mouth next. “I’ll think about giving them back.” Gabriel is suddenly lying in the nest like he’s waiting for you to paint him like one of your French girls. He pats the space next to him. “If you help break in the rest of it.”

It’s not quite how you fantasized about him inviting you into bed (which is impressive, considering all the various scenarios you’ve cooked up), but hell, you’ll take it. To offset how you scramble in so enthusiastically you might as well have “Pathetic” tattooed on your forehead, you joke, “Is this a scent thing? Should I roll around?”

“It’s really more of a ‘presence’ thing,” he says as you lie next to him. “But I wouldn’t mind it.”

“What if I roll onto you?”

He stares at you. You cringe. Shit. Touch is, well, a touchy subject ever since Asshole-modeus. “Sorry, I…I guess I shouldn’t say that.”

“Not unless you mean it.”

Hope surges in you. He looks serious, and you try to match it. “What if I do?”

He studies you, like he’s not sure if you're serious. And here you thought you were always pathetically obvious. “Really?” he asks, frowning in a way that makes you want to kiss those creases right off his face. How could he ever doubt?

“I always have been. Just…” You shrug. “What does a hunter, some random human, have to offer someone who dates demigods and can create perfection whole cloth–”

He kisses you. Firmly, and he doesn’t let up until he steals the breath right out of you. When he pulls back you’re left panting but your eyes trail to wet lips curling into a smirk. “Sugar,” he drawls. “I may not like my dad that much but even I have to admit…” His fingers trail up your temple and down behind your ear. “When it comes to workmanship, he’s second to none.”

You duck to hide your ridiculous smile. “Um…” You clear your throat. “This nest is actually really comfortable.”

“It is now,” he says and pulls you in.